


I've Gotta Run

by moonstone1520



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5093762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstone1520/pseuds/moonstone1520
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Running is something Molly Hooper has become very good at.<br/>Until Sherlock Holmes crosses her path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Molly

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the song "I've Gotta Run" by Pasek and Paul. They're pretty awesome songwriters.  
> It's very rough, and I'm not sure I like what came out of this.

The first time she ran, she was 26.

She was fresh out of school, just starting her job at St. Bart’s, and had just moved into a flat with Sean, the man she’d been seeing for the last eight months. She thought she was in love and ready for that level of commitment, really she did. He was everything a girl should want: he was nice, sweet, a wonderful cook, great in the sack and had a great job at an entry level firm. It was supposed to be the perfect life… until he began talking about marriage and how she would quit pathology to stay at home with the children and it was all too much too fast and Molly got scared.

So she ran.

It was the coward’s way out, really. She had moved all her things out of the flat while he was at work and left a note with her key:

_I’m sorry. I can’t do this. --Mx_

***

The second time she ran, she was 34.

Tom was everything she was supposed to want. He was smart, handsome, made her laugh, encouraged her in her field of work and she thought she was in love. So when he asked her, she said yes, pushing the thoughts of the dead detective out of her head. They already lived together and had a dog, what’s another level of commitment? But then _he_ came back, and everything changed. She slowly began to realize how boring Tom was compared to Sherlock. How she was only with Tom because he reminded her so much of him. How Tom may have been Sherlock’s clone, but was the exact opposite of him; not nearly smart enough or spontaneous enough or, God help her, _dangerous_ enough. Because the detective could be dangerous—she’s seen it in his eyes. Tom could never hurt a fly; Sherlock has done so much more than that.

She had to admit it: Molly had a _very specific_ type.

She ran a couple weeks after John and Mary’s wedding. Tom had come home to her things missing and a note on the table with her ring next to it:

_I’m so sorry. I thought I could do this, I really did._

_Please don’t hate me, though it’s the least I deserve. --Mx_

***

She thought the third time would be a charm.

He’d kissed her when he came back from his four minute exile, his relief at seeing her in one piece palpable when he pulled her mouth to his the second he walked through the door.

It was never perfect. He forgot her birthday and their anniversary and would deduce her to tears; she slapped him again and kicked him out when he came home high. Their fights became the stuff of legends, as Sherlock learned she could dish it out as well as he could. She was constantly reminded that he was never going to be good at the romantics, but she didn’t care as long as she could be with him. It didn’t have to be perfect to be _perfect_.

He told her he loved her during one of their fights. He blamed love for the fact he couldn’t really think straight anymore, was constantly afraid for her safety and never wanted her to leave his bed in the mornings. She cried and he panicked, thinking that he had already lost her by telling her how he felt, something he knew she wanted him to do more of. She laughed and kissed him and told him she loved him too. Then proceeded to show him how much.

He composed a song for her when he proposed, putting everything he couldn’t express vocally into music. He gave her a ring that Mary had pointed out to him—Molly had stopped and stared for five minutes when she and Mary were browsing at Harrod’s for shits and giggles one day. The ring he bought for Janine was gaudy and tacky and only took him five minutes to pick out and purchase. He’d agonized over the ring for Molly and enlisted Mary’s help when she figured out what he was up to. A single solitare diamond with a white gold band and tiny pink diamonds on either side, he knew it was perfect the second he saw it.

Their wedding was to be a small, understated affair. Molly was waiting for the ceremony to begin when the door behind her opened. She smiled, thinking it was Sherlock sneaking a peek before the ceremony, but it was Mary… with a note. Molly’s heart began pounding and her palms became sweaty as Mary handed it to her, biting her lip.

_I’m so sorry. Forgive me. --SH_

“He didn’t leave on a case, did he?” Molly whispered.

Mary shook her head. “I sent John out to find him—”

“He won’t. Sherlock won’t want to be found. Not by any of us.” She crumpled the note in her hand and allowed Mary to draw her into her arms.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry today.

She cursed herself as the tears began to fall.

***

She saw him in the morgue a month later.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to remain cool and professional while they discussed the current case he was on. She turned to go shut herself in her office, but was held back by his voice. “Molly.”

She stopped, listening. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I was… scared and I panicked and—”

“Sherlock.” He stopped. She turned and walked back towards him. He gazed down at her, his eyes full of regret and hope. She looked down and worked his ring off her finger. 

“I’ve gotta run.” 

She handed him his ring and walked away with her head held high, leaving the great detective standing with the remnants of her heart and their relationship in his hand.


	2. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In hindsight, he’d been in love with her since she agreed to help him die, no questions asked, save the most important one. 
> 
> What do you need? 
> 
> You.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be something completely different originally, but once I got onto this track, I simply couldn't stop.
> 
> This section is entirely from Sherlock's POV.

He never thought about what it meant to be in love. Not really. To him it was just an idea. Something that other people got to feel, but not him. Never him. He had accepted this a long time ago. Love was an elusive concept to him, something outside the realm of human experience that he was capable of. He had no desire to become the puddle of mushy goo that others seem to become whenever “love” took hold of them. He had no qualms about pushing everyone away to avoid feeling this emotion, to keep his focus on The Work. But, God help him, John, Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had all wormed their way into his heart over the years, and try as he might—and he has _tried_ —they all refuse to leave his side. So love in the form of friendship, familiarity, companionship—that kind of love he could feel, could articulate (barely), and could appreciate when the occasion called for it.

But when the monster in the dark reappeared {Did you miss me?}, threatening Queen and country and brought him back from his exile, it hit him like a ton of bricks when his first thought was of her, his first gut instinct was to protect her at all costs. That he _loved_ her.

 _Molly_.

In hindsight, he’d been in love with her since she agreed to help him die, no questions asked, save the most important one:  _What do you need?_

 _You_.

He asked (demanded) Mycroft to take John and Mary home and that he be driven to Bart’s as though hell itself was after him (it was).

He burst through the door of the morgue, his eyes wild, hair mussed, his coat sliding off his shoulders in his haste to get to her, to keep her safe. He scared her so badly she screamed. He crossed the room in three short strides and pulled her to his chest, holding her as a drowning man holds a life raft, cupped her face in his hands and searched her eyes. When he found what he was looking for, he murmured her name and crushed his lips against hers, taking advantage of her gasp of surprise to plunder her mouth with his tongue.

It took her about five seconds to realize what was happening and respond in kind.

She spent the night at Baker Street where he could watch her and keep her safe (among other things) and in the interest of her safety (at least, that’s what he told John, though both men knew that he wasn’t fooling anyone), he moved her into 221B two weeks later.

He credited Molly with being patient with him. He knew she was waiting for him to say the words, but he never felt inclined to say them, believing (mistakenly) that his actions would speak louder than words ever could.

And, for a while, they did.

Until he forgot Molly’s birthday. She learned not to talk to him when he was in his mind palace, after that fight. He learned about the importance of remembering (insignificant) details like birthdays. He apologized by worshipping her body that night and she swore up and down it was the best sex she’d ever had

That he forgot their anniversary initiated another argument. She came home two hours after their reservation to find him typing away on the computer, finalizing his theory on a case he had been stuck on. He had promised to meet her at Angelo’s but a new lead had distracted him.

They both would quickly learn that angry sex would follow all of their fights, and once they’ve both resolved whatever issue they were arguing about, intense lovemaking would follow.

He came home high one night. He stumbled into the flat, eyes flat and dead, pupils blown so far back she couldn’t see the iris if she tried, deductions about her appearance coming faster than normal. She slapped him so he saw stars and kicked him out of the flat, telling him not to come back until he was sober. He noticed she was so angry she didn't ask _why_. He stayed at Lestrade’s that night, as John wouldn’t let him stay with the baby around.

He returned three days later with flowers and a heartfelt apology that Molly never dreamed he’d ever be capable of. Her heart melted at, not only the apology he’d so carefully crafted, but the flowers—he’d never brought her flowers before. Romantic gestures were never his strong suit.

***

“I’m just going to work, Sherlock! Bart’s is not that far away!”

“I don’t care, Molly, you could be going to Tesco’s for all that it matters. Mycroft is sending you a car in the morning, and that’s final.”

“Final my arse! We’re not done here, Sherlock.”

“I’m not arguing about this anymore, Molly. The Tube is not good enough, and neither do I trust just any taxi cab so you’re taking a government car.”

“NO SHERLOCK, I’M NOT. CALL OFF YOUR BROTHER!”

“Molly, stop!”

“Why are you treating me like I’m breakable? I’m just going to work!”

“Because I **love** you, you ridiculous, aggravating woman!”

They both froze, his words hanging in the air. Molly’s eyes widened and filled with tears. Sherlock swallowed hard. “I—I’m trying to protect you from Moriarty. We still haven’t figured out what he’s up to or where that broadcast came from and I just want to keep you safe. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you, if you never came home and I never—I never said—”

He exhaled heavily and ran his hands through his curls. “I can’t think straight when you’re not around. I worry about you all the time. We all know he knows of your involvement in my—disappearance, and we don’t know what he’ll do about it. I can’t risk your safety. I—I have to have you near me, or I can’t think.” 

Molly stood still, afraid that if she moved she'd spook him. "You... you love me?"

He bowed his head at the inflection in her voice. He'd never said the words until now. He approached her slowly, crossing the room as he spoke. “I love the way you run your fingers through my hair when you’re trying to calm me down. I love how you stand in the kitchen when you’re eating quickly, with one leg propped against your knee like a ballerina. I love how you make a bigger mess in the flat than I do. I love how you sing out of key in the shower because you know it annoys me. I love how you simply hold me when there’s nothing to say. I love that I wake up with you next to me every single morning. So, yes. I love you, Molly Hooper.” His voice had gotten quieter the more he spoke as he realized she was crying. He tentatively reached out and pulled her to him.

“If you don’t love me, I understand,” he whispered.

He was caught completely by surprise when she began laughing hysterically at that statement.

“Well really, Molly,” he huffed, “I’m given to understand that tears aren’t the usual response to declarations of love. Nor is laughter.” He made to pull away, but she wouldn’t let him go. He looked down at her.

“You absolute prat. Of course I love you. I’ve loved you for so long I don’t even know when I started anymore.” Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears and happiness, her mouth quirked into a smile. “I was simply waiting for you to say it.”

He grinned at that and leaned down to kiss her, pouring all of the love he felt into his kiss. When he finally pulled away, her eyes blazed and she bit her lip. She pulled his head down to whisper into his ear, “Let me show you how much I love you, Mr. Holmes.”

Her arm was almost pulled out of its socket when he dragged her to their bedroom.

***

He’d been working on the composition for weeks, trying to get it just right. It was almost finished when he heard the door open. He cursed under his breath—he’d been timing her schedule so that he could practice when she was out of the flat. He didn’t want her to hear what he’d been composing—not yet.

“Sherlock, is that a new piece?”

“Damn,” he muttered. He turned to her brightly. “Yes, it is, but it isn’t quite finished yet—”

“Can I hear some of it?” she asked as she hung up her coat, completely oblivious to his nervousness.

He scratched his back with the bow. “It’s not finished quite yet—” It was a testament to his nerves that he repeated himself—Sherlock _despised_ repeating himself.

“Please? I’ve had a terrible day at work and I do love hearing you play.” Her brown doe eyes stared up at him and he felt his resolve give way.

“Alright.” He waited until she was curled up on the couch before he began playing. Her eyes closed as she listened, and she gasped when the emotion of the music overwhelmed her. Tears streamed down her face at how…eloquent the melody was. She didn’t open her eyes immediately when the song ended, just sat on the sofa and let the tears fall. She felt him take her hands in his and rub tiny circles onto her wrists.

“Molly?” She opened her eyes and found stormy irises gazing back at her. “Did you like it?”

She swallowed. “Sherlock, that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.” She squeezed his hand. “What’s it called?”

He inhaled. “It’s called… ‘Molly’s Song’.” She gasped.

“That… that was for me?” He nodded and fished around in his jacket pocket. When he presented the small box, the tears began anew.

“I just finished it. It wasn’t finished when you walked in, but just watching you, the rest of the notes came. I had meant to do this properly with candles and a nice dinner beforehand but… as you know, that’s not me.”

Her watery giggle made him smile.

“Molly, I love you. It took me a very long time to realize how much, but I finally have and I want you to wake up next to me every day for the rest of our lives.” He opened the box to show her a solitaire diamond with rose diamonds on either side and a white gold band. She gasped.

“That’s the ring I saw at Harrod’s!”

“Mmm, yes. Mary eventually realized what I was up to and offered to help. She had informed me that you two had gone to Harrod’s for, I believe she called it “shits and giggles” one day, and noticed that you couldn’t stop staring at this particular ring.”

Molly nodded, her eyes never leaving the exquisite piece of jewelry that was nestled inside the small box. “Yes. It’s the kind of ring I’ve always wanted.”

Sherlock grinned and slipped it onto her finger. “Then, with this ring, would you do me the honor of marrying me, Molly Hooper?”

He ecstatic kiss was all the answer he needed.

***

He had a full blown panic attack the day before the wedding.

His doubts had grown in the months leading up to the ceremony, but became fully realized as he struggled to breathe. He feared that she’d come to hate him and the lifestyle he led, that he could never fully protect her from his enemies, that he’d eventually get her killed. His dreams turned into nightmares and he frequently awoke from terrible imaginings of Molly dying in his arms because he failed to protect her. He more frequently awoke from nightmares where _he_ died and left her alone.

The words he once said to John began to echo in his head. _Alone is what I have, alone protects me._

***

He was a bloody coward.

He was holed up in the space behind Big Ben, screaming into the night as the old clock boomed out the hour.

He had run from his own wedding, leaving Molly behind.

***

He couldn’t put off a visit to the morgue any longer. Lestrade practically _pushed_ him into the room. “It’s now or never, mate.”

He would have preferred never.

His heart nearly stopped when he saw she was still wearing her engagement ring.

It did stop for a moment when he saw the weight she’d lost and the hollows under her eyes.

Somehow their interaction remained professional, though the air between them was fraught with words unsaid.

When she turned to go to her office, he stopped her with a single word, “Molly.”

Her back was to him, but he could tell she was listening. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I was… scared and I panicked and—”

His words were cut off by her movement. She turned to face him and approached him, working the ring off her finger. “Sherlock…”

_No. Please, Molly. Anything but this. Let me fix it_

“I’ve gotta run.”

She took his hand and placed the ring in his palm, closing his fingers over it. She squeezed his fist and walked away, closing her office door behind her.

It was only when he heard the lock click, he allowed the tears to fall and the magnitude of his mistake crash down on him.

 


End file.
